


Breakfast at Midnight

by wrabbit



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: fic_promptly, Domestic, Gen, Prompt Fic, SH: Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson have breakfast together. More or less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast at Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/gifts).



> Criticism: Welcome

He is sliding his hand blindly in the near total dark underneath a stranger's chicken when he realizes. Very far away, in London, the sky is lightening with the rising sun and someone else is also soon rising. Holmes smiles when his fingers touch a warmed shell and he carefully deposits the egg in his pocket with the cool one.

Sherlock Holmes turns his ears to the nearby sleeping house just as John Watson is surely stirring in the dim light. For the first time London is not a chain around his chest wherever he goes, tightening with bruising power as Holmes remembers with the clarity that comes from intent, long-term observation. Right now, Watson's eyes are lit up by the dawn sun, miotic from sleep and as blue as they ever are.

Holmes steps carefully over a stream, his modest steal cradled loosely in his jacket, just at the moment when Watson's feet brush the wood floor in his memory.

As he picks his way through the sparse, dying shrubbery by feel, John Watson is dressing himself in a cold room and the night rain is glistening on the plane tree outside. Holmes pulls himself up on a branch and climbs laboriously over a low wall, injured shoulder aching at his own weight, as Watson pulls his nightshirt off.

Holmes's stomach aches at the sense memory of the smell of Mrs. Hudson's coffee. He has to pause for a moment in the dark, counting the steps down from Watson's room before he can remember which path across the muddy, wet field before his encampment.

He is wet, nevertheless, when he reaches his abandoned coat and pile of kindling underneath a gnarled tree. He starts a controlled fire and dips his cup in the slow moving water to boil the eggs one by one, all the while imagining someone else reading the newspaper in the sun, scanning for the crime articles out of long habit. But here is Mrs. Hudson with breakfast and more coffee for the doctor.

Holmes cracks the first egg on a rock. He'll have to tell Watson sometime about the night they had breakfast together. Perhaps not.


End file.
